


Broken Toy Soldier Searching for Boy Toy

by starrysummernights



Series: The Weight of Elation [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Consensual, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Eventual Relationships, First Time, Forced Orgasm, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safer Sex, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10638450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: John Watson, recently invalided home from Afghanistan a broken man, cannot stop thinking about the gorgeous madman he met in Afghanistan, Sherlock Holmes. But John isn't who he used to be, he's injured and poor, washed up, and there's no way Sherlock would want him now. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to This Goes Against British Army Regulations. I had lots of people ask if I would continue that story, and one in particular wanted a scenario in which John is invalided home and he and Sherlock enter a relationship together. But of course, it's not going to be that easy.

“You wanna talk about it?”

John looked around Harry’s flat, taking in the noticeable signs of neglect and general deterioration. The yellowed blinds with a heavy layer of dust, the pull cord frayed and yet somehow looking rarely used. The faded rugs which were worn threadbare in different places and probably hadn’t been replaced since the 70s. The faded wallpaper that was peeling near the ceiling and the sagging armchair stuck in a corner with stacked magazines and newspapers listing precariously to the side. The pull-out sofa that sagged in the middle, an unfortunate shade of puce, with a homemade throw draped over the back, probably hiding where the fabric was fraying.

It wasn’t very welcoming, but after more than a year in Afghanistan, after living in tents and rough buildings, inhaling sand and the smell of blood and death, and after almost bleeding out in the sand and still sort of wishing he’d been left in that godforsaken place, John was just lucky to have a roof over his head.

And Harry had obviously made an effort at tidying up. The carpets had been vacuumed and the knickknacks on the mantle polished, but there was still dust in the corners, cups and plates piled in the kitchen sink, and mingling with the scent of lemon disinfectant was the stale smell of alcohol.

“John? You all right?” Harry hovered nervously, eyes flicking around her flat as if she were afraid she’d left something embarrassing out, like underwear or booze, then back to John.

“Will I be the sofa?” John asked, dodging Harry’s question. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not with her.

“Yeah!” She said with fake enthusiasm neither of them felt. Her cheerfulness fell flat in the drab little room. “It’s actually a pull out so…you know. More room.” She faffed her hands and then, after an awkward pause, hurried to the sofa to demonstrate.

John shifted his canvas bag to a firmer grip, his hand giving an annoying spasm and making it harder to grip, before admitting defeat and setting it down. It wasn’t heavy, his bag. Not really. Surprising, especially since it held all his earthly possessions.

After almost dying, his complete lack of worldly possessions was…disturbing.

John had thought he would have had more than a few changes of clothes, the odd book or two that hadn’t been sent to the secondhand store when he shipped off, and rudimentary self-care products. He didn’t have any pictures, albums, or even some small personal effects that tied him to other people. Nothing.

He wondered what that meant.

John strained a smile once Harry’d fixed the sofa, standing back with a proud little “tada.”

“It’s great. Really. Thanks.” It looked lumpy and uncomfortable and John knew it’d be hell on his back. Besides, why had Harry fixed it up for him? Did she think he wasn’t capable of pulling out a sofa and fixing it to sleep on himself? Why’d she think that, John squinted at the ugly sofa.

Because he had a cane? Because he was injured? Because he’d been discharged and declared useless by literally everyone?

“So. Are you…um…hungry? I guess you haven’t eaten since hospital.” Harry made another attempt at conversation. It was pathetic. They didn’t know what to say to each other. They barely even liked each other and now here they were, trying to play Loving Big Sister and Grateful Little Brother and there was no way in hell they could do this.

But John squared his shoulders, adjusted his stance with the help of his cane, and nodded. “Yeah. Christ. Yeah. And the food there was…” He grimaced, running out of words, shrugging, but Harry nodded knowingly.

“God, I know. The last time I ate at hospital the potatoes were…ice cold…” She trailed off at the look on John’s face, both of them remembering the ‘last time’ Harry’d been in hospital: having her stomach pumped from alcohol poisoning after she’d fallen off the wagon. Again.

“Had a bit more on my mind then instead of worrying over your cold potatoes.” John quipped tersely, but the joke was morbid and it wasn’t really a joke anyway. He wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Um. Right.” Harry crossed her arms, looking anywhere in the room but John. “I’ll just…see what’s in the fridge.”

John let her escape, glad of the moment to collect himself. It did no good reminding Harry of her failures at sobriety. John knew that…it was just…how many times had she put him through that? Calling him in the middle of the night, slurred speech giving way to cries and shouting, John rushing to her flat and finding her passed out in her own vomit and unresponsive, calling 999 and riding in the ambulance with her-

“Goddamn.” John scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t go through that again. Harry had promised she was clean in hospital, quietly proud of herself when she’d told John about being 43 days sober. Then she’d asked him to stay with her, once he was discharged.

What other choice did he have?

He didn’t have a flat of his own and no money to go anywhere else. All his friends were either dead or still in Afghanistan. A kip on Harry’s sofa for a few weeks, until he got on his feet financially, wasn’t so bad. It was better than living on the streets. He _guessed_.

But John couldn’t stay here and be Harry’s live-in babysitter, on the ready for when she fell off the wagon and needed saving. He couldn’t. It’d drive him barmy.

“John?” Harry called, coming back into the living room and smiling, a pitiful, wobbly thing. “I don’t really have much in…I guess I forgot to get anything this week. Um…why don’t we order out?”

Forgot to get food, coupled with the lingering smell of alcohol in the air. John frowned, sighing. Harry wasn’t sober. Far from it. But he didn’t want to pick a fight with her, not today, not when she was trying so hard and John was so goddamn _tired_.

“Sounds great.” John matched her smile and Harry’s eyes lit up.

“Okay! What would you like?” She twirled, tripping back into the kitchen for take out menus. “I’m buying! My little brother, the war hero- back from Afghanistan! The least you deserve is a free meal.”

* * *

 

Sherlock knelt on the floor of his bedroom, naked, the carpet prickling his knees and calves. He really needed to tell Mrs. Hudson to change the carpeting to something better. Plusher. Of course, he couldn’t tell her the reason why, but if he “accidentally” spilled acid on it she wouldn’t have any choice, would she?

Sherlock gave the idea considerable thought as he waited, arms loosely held behind his back, his right hand gripping the wrist of the left, head bowed submissively but his eyes covertly watching the unfamiliar dom ready himself for their scene in his loo. The man in question was good looking, tall, broad shouldered, dark skinned, and most importantly, a well-known and experienced dom.

Unsatisfied and restless, Sherlock had been out every night for the last two weeks, visiting local clubs in a fruitless search. It seemed no one involved in the London BDSM scene was worth his time…but tonight, he’d finally found someone to bring back to the flat.

So here they were.

His body was alight with anticipation. He’d been ordered to strip and kneel as soon as they were upstairs, and that, unless otherwise instructed, he shouldn’t use his hands at all tonight. Did he want handcuffs? Sherlock had politely, but firmly, declined.

Only a moron allowed an almost complete stranger to handcuff them. That was asking to be murdered.

His safeword was red.

His hard limits were handcuffs (decreased likelihood of being murdered by strangers), permanent marking, scat, urine, blood, and choking.

His requirements were condoms and decent aftercare.

Sherlock’s fingers fiddled together behind his back in a seemingly nervous display to the uninformed. But he wasn’t nervous.

He was bored.

He hoped tonight could cure him of the edginess, the anxiety, which had plagued him since he’d returned from Afghanistan six months ago. Before going, everything had been fine. He’d had a few local doms he played with, lots of cases to solve, an older brother to annoy, and life had been…acceptable. Good.

Then he’d met John Watson. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers with his thick, fat cock and his commanding presence and his uncanny ability to surprise Sherlock and command him to do degrading things that had him panting to obey and nothing had been the same. No one compared. Nobody even got close to John Watson.

The dom Sherlock had chosen for the evening paced out of the loo, unzipping his tight leather trousers as he came, and drawing out his cock, already sheathed in a bright pink latex condom.

“Suck my cock, slut.”

Sherlock managed not to roll his eyes at the trite command, but only just. Boring. Predictable. The cock in front of his face wasn’t even that great. It was slightly above average, but only just. Nevertheless, Sherlock shuffled forward on his knees and, rolling his eyes up to look at the dom, stuck out his tongue and flicked at the head of his cock. The man- Stephen, Sherlock remembered suddenly, his name was Stephen- moaned and let Sherlock tease him a bit. Which was disappointing. A real dom wouldn’t let Sherlock act so cheeky without rebuke but Stephen was already a let-down.

Such was life.

Sherlock finally grew bored and sucked Stephen’s cock into his mouth, taking it as far as he could, proud to display his cock-sucking ability and was rewarded with a few praises, a hand on the back of his head which did nothing but rest there. No hair pulling. No implied rhythm. Just…relaxing there.

Sucking cock wasn’t hard. Sherlock fell into the easy rhythm of it and zoned out after a few minutes, his eyes glazing and thoughts whirring. Sherlock remembered the way John Watson’s cock had stretched his mouth, gagged him when he thrust deep, the way he’d wanted to do anything and everything to please John Watson, make him gasp and moan.

“Touch yourself.” Stephen ordered and Sherlock rotated his shoulders, stretching them out before taking his own cock in hand. He wasn’t all that interested anymore. His mind was elsewhere. In a dusty medical building in Afghanistan. Nevertheless, it felt good to touch himself after so long and Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, latex and soap and musk, his penis hardening at the familiar impetus.

“Oh, fuck-! You’re gonna make me-!...Stop!” Stephen pushed Sherlock off his cock and held the base of it, moaning. Sherlock watched, hand paused on his own cock, as Stephen finally gave in and stroked himself the rest of the way off, come flooding into the condom’s tip. Stephen gave himself a few more strokes, then glared at Sherlock. “Put your hands behind your back.”

Sherlock did as he was told, falling back into position and waiting for the next command.

“You weren’t quick enough, pulling away.” Stephen said critically. “When I give you an order I expect you to obey instantly. Understand?”

Sherlock nodded, deflating. He’d done as he’d been asked. Stephen was playing the game. The blame game. He’d came too quickly but the only way he knew how to be in control was blame Sherlock which meant-

“Up and over the bed. I’ll give you 50 swats for that.”

Oh, lord. Sherlock stiffly rose, Stephen helping him, grabbing him by the arms and trying to hoist him up but only hindering him in the process. Sherlock shook him off and laid himself across the bed, pressing his cock down against the mattress, crossing his arms under his head and waiting.

What followed was lackluster and tedious. Sherlock couldn’t even pretend it was John Watson spanking him because John Watson, the John Watson in Sherlock’s head, would never be so predictable. Aiming at the same two places over and over, not spreading the pain out as an experienced dom should know, or pausing periodically to let Sherlock feel his skin turning cherry red and enjoying the tingling pain. No. Just strike after strike after strike.

Oh. And Stephen made Sherlock count each spank, but after a while Sherlock could dully hear himself saying “14…15…16…” and tuned himself out.

Stephen spent a good while teasing Sherlock after, rolling him onto his front once the spanking was over and playing with his cock. Sherlock had to admit that Stephen was quiet good at stroking his cock, slicking his hand with lube and rubbing at Sherlock just right. He didn’t give Sherlock a blow job- most doms thought it was beneath them- but Sherlock was alert and enthusiastic the entire time, groaning along to the motions of Stephen’s hand. He was a good sub and he let Stephen know every time when he was close and, predictably, he was denied permission to come.

By the time Sherlock was sweaty and desperate, Stephen was hard again and he prepared Sherlock quickly, then turned him over onto his hands and knees and thrust inside. Sherlock was allowed to touch himself but had to stop a handful of times because he almost came and he hadn’t been given permission yet. Finally, Stephen came and pulled out, rolling Sherlock onto his front and eyeing him with a lazy eye, said with forced nonchalance.

“All right. You did well enough. I guess. Get yourself off.”

Cerebrally, Sherlock didn’t really want to. This entire scene had been repetitive, by the book, and if he’d known this was how the night would go he would have given it a pass…but his transport feverishly demanded an orgasm and so Sherlock took himself in hand and gave a few perfunctory tugs.

As he came, Sherlock wondered what John Watson would have made him do instead. He wondered where John Watson was and, wherever he was, if he ever thought of him.

* * *

 

The man’s skin was smooth, lean muscles bunching beneath John’s palms as the man under him writhed, a perfect, sensual undulation of his body. Curls tickled in John’s face. Fingernails scored down his back, the sharp pain sweet even as sweat stung at the open cuts. John inhaled deeply, breathed in the musky smells of sex- sweat and too-sweet strawberry lube and expensive hair products- and jammed his cock into the warm slickness of the man’s arse, harder and faster, the wet, squelching sounds of his cock pounding into that arse obscene. It was a sound you’d recognize anywhere, purely visceral and perverse.

John curled his hands over the slim but strangely masculine shoulders to hold the other man in place as they moved forward with every thrust, jarred by the brutality of their coupling. The man was panting, moaning and John had never heard anything so magnificent. Sweet and breathy but deep and manly and rough, the perfect blend.

“Please….oh, please….oh, god, your cock, sir!”

Christ that voice! Pitched low, it was deeper than any other male voice John had ever heard. It was heady to hear the man beg him, beg John-

“Come in my arse, sir! Please, sir! I want it- I want it- I want it-”

John reached between them and grabbed the man’s cock. It was small and flawless in his hand and he stroked it as best as he could in their position. His arm muscles burned at the contortion but he kept going, wanting the other man to come before he did. It was a point of pride. The body beneath him went rigid, a shocked gasp-

“Ah!” Sherlock’s face screwed up, contorting with pleasure and John watched, fascinated, his own cock giving an eager throb at the sight.

“Ah- _John_ -!”

John bolted awake, lurching upright in his bed, confused and disoriented in a tangle of sheets and blanket. His cock throbbed urgently, on the verge of orgasm but with no discernable reason why.

“What…” He blinked, looking around the drab little flat, trying to understand where he was and what had just happened. Where was Sherlock? Where-... John’s dream faded rapidly even as he reached out his hands, groping for the warm body he’d only just been fucking…he’d only just…what?

“Fuck.” John whispered shakily, flopping back onto the pull-out, making the entire thing rock precariously. His heart was racing. His cock flexed beneath the covers, aching and wet at the tip from his sodding dream. How pathetic. All it took was a little dream to get John’s body riled up and responsive, ready.

“ _Fuck_.” John whispered again, this time with more feeling. This wasn’t the first time he’d dreamed about Sherlock Holmes, the gorgeous mad man from Afghanistan. The man who’d been sent there on a top secret mission and who’d still found time to get fucked by half the base. The man who’d all but seduced John, waltzing into John’s office, bold as brass, offering himself to John and drooling over his cock. The same man who’d sucked John’s cock like his life depended on it and then humped John’s boot to get himself off in a brilliant display of meek but gorgeous submissiveness.

John had dreamed a lot about Sherlock Holmes in the months since he’d met him. But this was the first time his dream had been so real. Vivid. Like he was actually there.

“Dream on, Watson.” John snorted, settling back on the pull out as much as he could, ignoring his cock grouchily. He remembered the way Sherlock had looked. Tall. Attractive. Brilliant- because John knew a bit about why he’d been there in the first place: rumor had gone around the camp about the real reason he’d been there, nothing to do with sucking Army cock. A guy like that didn’t want someone broken- physically, mentally, and financially. He didn’t want someone like John. He’d probably feel pity for John now, if they met again. Ask him if he needed to sit down. Coddle him like an old, decrepit man. Definitely not someone you were sexually attracted to.

John turned over on the pull out, pummeling his pillow and angrily trying to make himself go back to sleep, reminding himself that dreaming about Sherlock was useless. He may have wanted John in the past, but there was no way he’d want him now.


	2. Chapter 2

John needed to get a job.

He glanced through the newspaper every morning as he picked at his breakfast, eyes scanning for job openings that didn’t make him want to blow his brains out. But after a few minutes, John always got up, tossing his uneaten breakfast away and binning the newspaper on top of it. There was nothing that interested him. Even the jobs he was qualified for, the ones where he could actually use his degree and skills and save people, didn’t interest him. Not anymore.

He needed to get a job, though. He told himself that every day, but every day he kept putting it off. Just a little longer.

Another day. Then another. And another.

His army pension barely covered the rent in his new flat- if you could even call it that. The bedsit was a shitty little place with a shitty one room, a shitty combined kitchen/bedroom, with a shitty, tiny attached loo. The saving grace, which was why John had chosen it over fuck all else, was that it had come fully furnished. Unfortunately, the old, worn out furnishings made the place even shittier. John felt like a rat in a box with unseen scientists watching him and waiting for him to finally get sick of it all and kill himself.

Tempting, but not yet. No reason why just… _not yet_.

John didn’t know what he was waiting for. He was 35 years old, discharged from the army, physically ruined for surgical work, unemployed, friendless, family-less (because fuck Harry), with a goddamn limp, and broke as all fuck. Even if he felt like “getting out there” as his therapist encouraged him to do in their biweekly sessions, who in their right mind would want him? Who would take a second look at the short, sad sack in his button down and cane?

John sat on the edge of his shitty, hard bed and stared at the wall opposite. The plain, boring, dull wall without even a picture to alleviate the space. He could put one up, he supposed distantly. Except he didn’t have a picture. Maybe a calendar? He could flip a few months ahead and circle a date at random and then mark off the days, just to give him something to look forward to. That was stupid.

He could hear his day-living neighbors- the sound of a telly, morning news, laughter, banging of pots and pans as they cooked breakfast, raised voices, quiet murmurs, a baby crying. The walls were eggshell thin and he could hear it all.

He wondered how loud the sound of a gunshot would be through the walls. If his neighbors would notice, or care, and phone for help immediately or if they would hesitate. Had they _really_ just heard the nice doctor kill himself?

It’d be hell to clean blood out of the beige carpet, though, and John spent a few minutes feeling bad for an unknown, faceless cleaner on their hands and knees trying fruitlessly to mop up his blood.

John took a deep, rattling breath and stood up, shoving his gun back in his desk. Not today. _Not yet._

He needed to get tea. John reminded himself of his little list in the kitchen. He needed tea, groceries. Busy. Occupation. Distraction. It was the only thing he had to do. He had nothing else on, nothing in, nowhere to go, and no money to get there even if he did.

He met no one on his way out of the building, and John couldn’t decide if he was pleased or disappointed.

* * *

 

His cock dragged over the sheets, bouncing across the fabric, the wet head catching unexpectedly and tearing a moan from his throat. The man behind him slapped his arse and sped up and his hands were like a vise around Sherlock’s middle. If Sherlock’s own hands weren’t bound behind his back, Sherlock would have been touching himself but he couldn’t and his head was mashed into the pillow and all he could do was lay there, present his arse, and take it.

The thought made him moan and another ringing slap was delivered to his arse as the man, the new Dom Sherlock had brought home for the night, speared him mercilessly, hammering Sherlock’s prostate unerringly until the line between pleasure and pain was blurred, confused, and Sherlock blinked sweat out of his eyes and hung on, his hands clenching into fists at the small of his back.

He loved this: being held down and tied up and taken. Used and made to feel insignificant and yet the center of someone’s focus. It was his favorite part and even as the Dom came with a relieved groan in his arse, and he was still hard and throbbing, Sherlock experienced his own echoing sense of relief. That he had done well. He had pleased the Dom. He’d been a good sub all night long and this night had not been a waste. The welts on his back stung from sweat and he shivered when they raked against the sheets as the Dom turned him over, making Sherlock arch as he lay on his bound arms, giving him a lazy smile.

“You did well.” He said. “I’ll untie you in a bit. Unless you’d rather not earn your right to come?”

“Yes, please.” Sherlock managed. “I’d like to.” “All right.”

The Dom leaned over and got the bottle of lube where they’d abandoned it. He poured a generous amount on his palm and rubbed his fingers together, coating his hand with it. Sherlock watched the oddly erotic act with bated breath, then hissed when the Dom slowly slid his wet hand over Sherlock’s erection. His cock hadn’t been touched all night and it felt amazing after the extended denial. Slick pleasure spiraled tight, teasing because the Dom wasn’t moving his hand, was letting it rest midway along Sherlock’s shaft.

Sherlock wiggled his hips, wanting him to move but not wanting to be pushy and maybe risk a punishment instead of a reward.

“Well?” The Dom asked, raising an eyebrow. “Go ahead and hump my hand. Don’t take too long though. I’ll have to call it an early day. I have work tomorrow morning.”

“How long do I have?” Sherlock asked, already raising his hips in a shaky thrust. His skin tightened immediately with pleasure.

The Dom shrugged. “Until I get bored. Better hurry. I’m already losing interest.” He let his grip ease, the warm slickness encasing Sherlock’s cock suddenly lessened, and Sherlock breathed out a shocked little gasp.

“No- please! I will-“ He began pumping his hips, pushing himself into the Dom’s hand, chasing his orgasm. It was awkward because of his bound hands trapped under his back and his muscles were already tired from holding positions all night, but he wanted to do this. He wanted to succeed, he wanted to come this way which was new and different and wonderfully demanding but the Dom was feigning interest and his hand was getting looser again until it was the barest of brushes but it could be enough- please- and Sherlock’s balls tensed as every muscle locked in preparation to come-

“Ah!” Semen spattered Sherlock’s chest as he spasmed and twitched his way through his orgasm, the Dom’s hand tightening and milking the last drops of pleasure and semen from his spent cock.

“Goddamn that was gorgeous. You’re really fucking something.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, already ready for his own come to be fed back to him.

* * *

 

John woke from another dream, kicking away his sticky sheets and swearing. He sat on the side of his bed, a now familiar spot, trying to make the dream go away. The images were branded into his retinas and he fisted his hands and rubbed at his eyes angrily, trying to scrub everything away.

Who was he kidding?

Sherlock Holmes was so far out of his goddamn league it wasn’t funny. John wasn’t the same person he’d been all those months ago in Afghanistan. He wasn’t the kind of person Sherlock would want. He remembered the way Sherlock had looked, knelt at his feet, vibrant and eager and alive. Full of life and energy. He didn’t need or want someone like John, how he was now- depressed and crippled- bringing him down and making him feel disappointment. If they met now, he’d probably feel obligated to give John a pity fuck and hope the whole time John would dazzle him again and chances were John wouldn’t even be able to get it up because fuck PTSD and Sherlock would reassure him it was fine but it wasn’t and nothing ever was-

Something dangerously close to a sob threatened and John lifted his head, clearing his throat manfully.

“Get it together, Watson.” John said sternly, but all that answered him back was oppressive silence.

* * *

 

The food in his small fridge all went bad. There were shops down the road but they were too far away. He’d have to walk- couldn’t afford the cab- and limp there. He couldn’t carry many groceries back because he’d need one hand for his cane. But it was fine. John wasn’t hungry anyway.

He needed to get a job.

He needed to clean the small bedsit but he was tired. He didn’t have the energy. What was the point anyway?

_Not yet._

* * *

 

John walked past the club a few times, reluctant to go in. Neon red lettering pulsed in the night, declaring **“Stripp, London’s Oldest BDSM Club since 1985”** in bold letters. Each time the door opened thudding music poured out onto the pavement, combined with the clamor of voices and, once, the crack of whip followed by a chorus of cheers. A group of men, all in leather, smoked a few feet from the door, talking about the latest episode of Doctor Who and arguing over which was the better Doctor. The guy on his knees, dressed in leather straps and nothing else, with his leash held by a burly man in studded trousers, was vociferously arguing in favor of Tenant. He strained his neck upward for occasional puffs from the cigarette of his dom but otherwise remained on hands and knees.

John limped past them once, then twice with his cane, avoiding eye contact and pretending they weren’t standing there. He loitered on the street corner at the end of each circuit, debating with himself and trying to decide whether or not he had the balls to go inside.

_Stripp_ had been John’s favorite place before he joined the Army. A BDSM club, it was one of the best in London. Clean and on the up-and-up, with lots of different public rooms, with bowls of free condoms and lube every place you looked. Drugs were prohibited, prostitution was frowned on, and eagle-eyed bouncers were on the look out for doms abusing their power or a sub who’d drank too much and couldn’t remember their safeword. _Stripp_ had a reputation to maintain and they took pride in what they did. They didn’t want their name, or BDSM, besmirched by some asshole with muscles and too much testosterone acting like an entitled asshole.

John watched the front door from the corner of his eyes. The leather-clad group finally went back inside, the Tenant fan crawling beside his dom with gangly grace, rubbing against his leg like an overlarge cat.

The plan had seemed a lot easier back at his bedsit. Go in. Get a drink. Scope out the scene. Spend a night out and just sodding enjoy himself.

John didn’t know why he was here. What he expected to happen. He’d been a name, back in the day, with a good reputation as a competent dom with a big dick but now…

“Dammit.” John stomped his way to the door and nodded at the bouncer, paying his way inside with terse movements before he lost his nerve. Once he’d paid, there was no backing out. The cover charge was too much money on his strained income to be a passing whim.

He was overdressed with his conservative button down and jeans, and he’d known he would be but he didn’t have anything else. Almost everyone at _Stripp_ was dressed in various gear: leather, latex, short skirts, pasties, shirtless, jeans, skin baring straps. The immediate smell of sanitary cleaning solution and leather mingled with the scent of cigarettes and alcohol. Familiar and John’s body reacted viscerally. This was what he knew. This was what he remembered. What he’d missed.

It was early in the night and the place was only half full. The front room was large, with tables and alcoves and a long bar with multiple bartenders along the length pouring drinks. Music thumped but didn’t assault the ears, wasn’t loud enough to drown out cries and loud moans, or the sound of a sub’s safeword. Somewhere, the whip cracked again. Hallways led off to each side of the main room where there were upwards of a dozen common rooms with lots of equipment, where a dom and their sub could put on a show for the crowd. During the day, _Stripp_ used the rooms to host “How To” classes for newbie BDSM couples.

The main room was just as arrayed, though more tastefully: stripper poles dotted the floor and climbed to the ceiling, benches with leather straps and a few metal cages could be seen, and a recent installation of a fucking machine was sitting in pride of place at a little stage to the right of the bar. No one was on it yet, but John figured some lucky- or unlucky- sub would be by midnight.

He made his way to the bar and ordered a glass of red, glancing around as he waited. There was a large group of women in a corner booth that his gaze fell on, but the way the small one was fondling another’s breasts, red lips stretched in a smile as she demonstrated something to the others, John knew his presence wasn’t wanted. He averted his eyes before they caught him staring and thought he was a pervert.

“Here you go, love.” The bartender winked at John as he slipped the glass of wine across the top. “This your first time?” He gave John a look of profound experience and compassion, mixed with curiosity. Something in John warmed at the attention.

“Ta, and uh…no. No…I used to come here before I shipped off, but it’s been years.”

The bartender’s eyes lit up. “Soldier? Shoulda worn your fatigues, love. Woulda been a big hit here.”

John chuckled, taking a sip of his wine- and almost choked when his eyes found someone across the room who was startlingly familiar.

All the breath left John’s body in a rush. It felt as if someone had punched him, a solid hit to his solar plexus. He didn’t even hear the bartender asking flirtatiously if he would be seeing John in his uniform next time. He was moving through the crowd like in a dream, eyes fixed on the one person he’d been dreaming of for months and the last person he’d expected to see.

Sherlock Holmes.

He looked incredible. Posh suit and immaculately tousled hair. The same gorgeous face John remembered looking up at him from the floor mischievously. Sherlock should have been out of place in a leather scene but the suit and his arrogant expression somehow made him right at home. He was talking to a muscular man in skin tight trousers and an open shirt and while he seemed disinterested, when the man ordered Sherlock a drink, he didn’t say no.

“You ever do anything freaky with that cane, daddy?” A woman asked in a girlish whimper, stepping in front of John and licking her lips in what she probably thought was seductive. Her breasts jiggled, barely contained in a bright purple bra and when John looked, he couldn’t help it, her panties and fishnets matched. John was nonplussed.

“What?”

“I’d let you beat me with it in room 8 if you wanna try. Bruises only, though. My safeword’s vanilla.” She smirked, striking a pose with her hands on her hips but instead of being seduced or intrigued, John was sickened.

“No.” He took a step back, and then another. The woman pouted at him as he turned around and tossed some bills on the bar then, making sure Sherlock was still involved with the muscular dom and hadn’t seen him yet, beat a hasty retreat.

What had he been thinking coming here? Crippled with a cane and trying to ingratiate himself into a scene when he was too goddamn old and broken?

John castigated himself as he limped to the door, but before he left he heard his name being called.

“John! John Watson!”

John’s stomach dropped through the floor. He gripped his cane so tightly his palm hurt as he turned around as if squaring off for a fight, eyes immediately looking to see if the shout had drawn Sherlock’s attention.

It hadn’t. Thank god.

Mike Stamford hurried his way through the crowd of bodies, his large face beaming at John in delight, and John relaxed somewhat. Stamford was an old university friend, they’d been at Bart’s together, and taken in the scene at Stripp more than once. It was actually where Stamford had met his wife and Domme, Cassandra.

Stamford was apparently alone this time, naked except for a pair of very small tight leather shorts which hit him midthigh and left very little to the imagination. A bulge that big he had to be wearing some kind of cock jewelry, John thought before he could stop himself. Stamford had always been open and free with his body, with the confidence of a charging elephant, and John had always liked him for his friendliness and nonjudgmental attitude. His Domme, Cassandra, sauntered through the crowd a few paces behind him, long legs encased in leather boots and pretty red corset cinching her waist so the flare of her black skirt was more dramatic. Her frown transformed into a smile when she saw John.

“John! I was wondering who Mike had seen. We were in the middle of a scene and all of a sudden he’s calling his safeword and scampering off on me.” Her voice was full of laughter, no recrimination about the use of a safeword, and she kissed John’s cheek, engulfing him in perfume, then drew back, still smiling. John found himself smiling back. He’d always genuinely liked Cassandra.

“Sorry.” John didn’t know why he was apologizing but the word slipped out before he could manage it. Cassandra seemed to have that effect on most people. Stamford apologized too but came forward and wrung John’s hand, pumping it up and down jovially and clapping John on the shoulder. One of his nipples were pierced and the barbell glinted in the low lights.

“It’s ok.” Cassandra said, shrugging and picking up the chain attached to Stamford’s collar, fingering the links but not jerking it, simply holding it gently. “It just gives me more reason to punish him later.” She gave Stamford an arch smile and he grinned back at her. John had to look away. They were disgusting in their perfect love.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at.” Stamford said, the charging elephant confidence trampling destructively. “What happened?”

John shifted with his cane, indicating it with a glance. “I got shot.”

“Oh. Right.” Stamford nodded and they fell into a silence that was both awkward and pitying. John moved to leave, his best polite smile on his face.

“You’re the last person I expected to see back at _Stripp_.” Stamford said, interrupting him. “You have a new sub?”

“No.” John said shortly, then felt compelled to add. “Come on. Who’d want me for a dom?”

Stamford snickered and both Cassandra and John looked at him.

“What?”

“You’re the second person to say that to me today. Well. The first was a sub, I mean-“

“Stamford-“ Cassandra rattled his chain lightly, urging him to be clear.

“Who’d want me for a sub? That’s what he said.” Stamford held up a finger. “He’s a friend from work and he’s been around here a lot lately. Part of the scene and looking for someone to dominate him because he doesn’t have anyone steady.”

“Yeah?”

“Want me to introduce you? He’s here.” Stamford said eagerly. “I saw him earlier.”

Stamford looked so keen and John was so lonely and all he had to go back to was his shitty bedsit and he thought of a faceless sub who didn’t have anyone and…maybe.

“Sure.” He shrugged. “Why not?”

Stamford asked permission from Cassandra to leave to find the sub, which was granted, and he scampered off, leaving Cassandra and John to weave through the quickly filling club and find an empty booth near the center of the room. They ordered more drinks and waited, Cassandra asking John what he’d been up to since coming back to London and John making up more and more shit to keep himself from sounding pathetic.

It was a relief when Stamford finally came back- but John took one look at the sub he was with and wanted to crawl through the floor.

He should have known the sub Stamford was talking about would have been Sherlock Holmes, the very man John had been wanting to avoid- and the very man he wanted to see.

Up close, Sherlock Holmes looked like a completely different person than the one he’d been in Afghanistan. The man in front of John in the impeccable suit and stand-offish personality would never have sank to his knees to fuck and suck the entire barrack’s cocks. He never would have moaned and gagged over John’s cock. And he certainly never would have rubbed himself off against John’s filthy boot and whimpered as he came like a debauched slut. He was unapproachable. Untouchable. He was John’s every fantasy come to life and there was no way John would ever be able to have him again.

John forced a horrible smile and he saw it. A flicker of recognition in Sherlock’s eyes before they shuttered and he extended his hand.

“Old uni friend of mine, John Watson.” Stamford said, making introductions as he slid into the booth beside his Domme. “Sherlock Holmes. He’s a-“

“Consulting detective.” Sherlock’s hand lingered in John’s before he withdrew it. John’s hand tingled where they’d touched and when Sherlock sat beside him, at a respectable distant, the scent of his cologne made John’s cock twitch.

“John’s just returned from Afghanistan.” Stamford supplied.

“Fascinating.” Sherlock made it sound anything but. John wanted to squirm in embarrassment. Sherlock clearly cared nothing about him. He probably wished he’d declined Stamford’s introduction to a dom. Was disappointed when he was shown John. Broken, derelict John Watson.

“You’re looking for a flat.”

“Sorry. What?” John hadn’t paid attention and now he was lost in the conversation. He looked to Cassandra and Stamford but they seemed just as confused.

“You’re looking for a flat. You’re not happy at the one you’re currently at.” Sherlock said, and John laughed.

“How’d you know that?”

“I have my eye on a little place in central London. Should be able to afford it with two people. Can you meet there tomorrow?”

“I doubt I could afford a place in central London.” John quipped, laughing again and looking to Cassandra and Stamford to share in it with him, taking an overlarge sip of his wine to mask his discomfort. “Besides. How’d you know I wasn’t happy at my own place?”

“Because of your shirt.”

“My shirt?”

“Wrinkled. Unkempt. Military man such as yourself would never let your outfits be any less than pristine. But the iron at your new flat doesn’t heat up properly- I can see where you’ve tried to smooth out the creases- and you haven’t bothered getting a new one because you think of your time there as impermanent. Easy. And my flat is at a decent rate. Landlady owes me a favor. I’ll text you the address.” Sherlock smiled at Stamford and Cassandra and made to leave the booth.

“You don’t have my number!” John said, shocked. Sherlock turned and winked.

“No. But I assume you’ll text me later tonight.”

John looked down at the card Sherlock was sliding across the table to him, taking it with numb fingers and staring at the digits.

What the ever loving _fuck_.

Things suddenly became very clear to John. Sherlock was wanting to hook up with John and John…didn’t know how he felt about that. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t seen the cane. Maybe he thought John would “get freaky with it” as the girl earlier had assumed. Maybe he didn’t care- unlikely. Maybe he thought it could still work. John was selfish, and idiotic enough, to want to make it and try. But John couldn’t let Sherlock go into this with his eyes closed. He had to tell him.

John grabbed his arm and Sherlock froze, looking down to where John’s hand gripped him, crumpling his expensive suit, but John didn’t let go. He had to make sure Sherlock knew what this would be.

“Sherlock….listen.” He wet his lips and Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to take that in, before staring at John again. “This isn’t Afghanistan.” John finally said, hoping Sherlock read between the lines and understood what John was trying to say. Sherlock frowned, a cute little line forming between his brows. He nodded and John released his grip, letting Sherlock walk away. He watched until Sherlock was out the door of the club, then released a breath, his fingers tight around the card, afraid he would lose it. It'd probably be better for them both if he did.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as he was out of the club, Sherlock pushed past leather clad groups arriving late, chatting loudly, full of excitement and looking forward to a night of pleasures, and ducked down an alleyway, hurrying to the end of the dark passage where he could be alone. He pressed himself against the brick, melting into the shadows. His heart hammered wildly in his chest. His knees felt as weak as if he’d ran a marathon. They threatened to give out and he sagged against the stone harder. Sherlock sighed and let himself slide down the brick, the fabric of his coat catching on the rough stone as he sank to a crouch.

Watson. Captain John Watson was back in London.

Sherlock’s hands jumped to the front of his trousers. He glanced quickly to the mouth of the alleyway to make sure he was alone and that no one could see him.

Captain John Watson. A wounded war hero in need of a place to stay. The most capable dominant Sherlock had ever met. He was back in London. He’d taken Sherlock up on his offer of a place to live.

Sherlock groaned lightly and pressed down on his cock which jumped eagerly beneath his palm. He’d been half hard ever since he’d seen John waiting for him in the booth.

And they were meeting tomorrow. Sherlock had given John his number. Sherlock had invited John to live with him.

John Watson in 221B. Sleeping in his bedroom. Showering in Sherlock’s loo. Occupying the same space and impressing the very air with fibers of his John-ness. Sherlock pressed more insistently against his cock and bit his lip. He imagined what it would be like: living with John, close to the man, subbing for him every day and all that entailed.

“This isn’t Afghanistan.” John had said.

Sherlock frowned. He knew it wasn’t. Geographically, he knew their location. That hadn’t been what John was referencing. Sherlock had noticed John’s cane. John had been wounded and was recovering. Obviously they couldn’t be strenuous in their…endeavors. But Sherlock could be accommodating- very accommodating if he were obliging John Watson, and he knew John was creative. They would manage.

“Captain…” Sherlock sighed, stroking himself through his trousers, the fabric chafing against his sensitive flesh but the burn adding to his pleasure. He remembered how John had stared up at him, a hot presence beside him in the club, and the adrenaline of seeing John there, among the press of bodies and the aphrodisiacal smells of leather and sex and lube and come. And Sherlock though of their too-brief encounter in Afghanistan and wondered what else John had planned for him.

“J-John-!” Sherlock’s agonized whisper echoed slightly in the narrow alley as he came hot and sticky in his trousers, the wetness seeping through the fabric and onto his fingers. It was the best orgasm he’d had in a while, including the one with the last dom he’d played with, and he knew that if John chose to stay at 221B with him, he would be in for the best orgasms of his life. The thought made his cock twitch again, but Sherlock knew, any sub knew, that moderation was the superlative.

He stayed that way for a time however, bent over and panting, letting his body regain it’s equilibrium before he straightened, drawing his coat around himself and concealing the stain before stridin back the way he’d came.

The busy city street was disconcerting, and Sherlock stood for a minute staring before he moved in the direction of him. If Captain Watson were arriving tomorrow, he needed to get 221B ready for him. He didn’t want to start their relationship with a punishment…or, he thought calculatingly, maybe he _did_.

* * *

 

John almost didn’t text Sherlock.

Once he arrived back to his bedsit from the club, he sat on the side of his bed and stared at the card with Sherlock’s number scrawled on it for some time, debating with himself.

It was foolish to text him.

John had literally nothing to offer someone like Sherlock Holmes. No money. Shit mental health. An even shittier physical health. Sherlock clearly wanted a dom- Stamford had said he was on a nightly hunt for one- and that wasn’t something John could be. Not now. Not anymore.

But what if he did text Sherlock?

John snorted, crumpled the little square of paper, and flung it across the room.

“Don’t be stupid, Watson.” He stripped off his jacket and shirt and trousers, unnecessarily angry when the buttons slipped through his fingers and his feet got tangled in the leg holes. He threw his clothes across the room and tossed his cane noisily on the floor, not caring if he woke his downstairs neighbor. He threw himself into bed, breathing heavily and annoyed.

But even his anger couldn’t stop him from thinking: what if he did text Sherlock?

Christ, he fucking wanted to.

Sherlock would want John to move in with him, into a flat in central London there was no way John could ever afford. Even before he’d joined the Army, he’d never had that kind of money. The prices for places like that were outrageous. Sherlock had said it was a decent rate and that the landlady owed him a favor- but there was no way she’d knock thousands of pounds off the rent just because Sherlock asked nicely. Sherlock had to know John wouldn’t be able to afford to live there.

He’d still asked, though.

Something cold settled in John’s chest. Did Sherlock expect John to be a dom-for-hire? Would John dominate Sherlock on the regular in exchange for his rent? Besides the obvious- that John didn’t want to be a prostitute even if it was for Sherlock Bloody Holmes- he just…wasn’t up to it. Being a dom.

He couldn’t dom someone anymore. It was hard when his leg didn’t work right and his hand spasmed and he had to lean on a cane all the time. Not only that, his physical reactions weren’t always…hell, John thought snidely. John Watson couldn’t get it up, or keep it up sometimes. PTSD and all the damn medications he was on saw paid to that. His cock was limp. That was what he wanted to say, and he may as well admit it to himself, in the privacy of his own head.

He couldn’t be a dom anymore, and he’d cock it up with Sherlock and Sherlock would just end up disappointed and then ask John to move out and John would be in worse off shape than he’d been before.

He wouldn’t text Sherlock. Simple and logical.

Except…

John thought of Sherlock, naked, his neck bowed as he gorgeously submitted to John on the dirty floor of a medical tent in Afghanistan. He thought of Sherlock’s gorgeous eyes staring at him, lighting up when he saw him in the dim club. And John thought about all the things he didn’t know about Sherlock- what his arse felt like under his hands or lips, the sounds Sherlock would make when John fucked him, how he looked when someone was sucking his dick, because god above John wanted to suck Sherlock’s cock like it was an addiction…

John flung back the covers, wrestling for his cane and stomping across the floor in search of a little ball of paper.

“ _Dammit_.”

* * *

 

They met the next day, against John’s better judgment, in a trendy part of London that was so posh John felt like an intruder. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was nice enough- warm and friendly- and it was clear that Sherlock had told her about John because she greeted him like a friend and invited him down for tea “when you get settled in.” Almost as if John had already signed a lease.

The flat was a disaster area.

John stared at it in shock, at the boxes everywhere and rubbish scattered all about. The kitchen table was covered in science equipment and even Mrs. Hudson tsked and scolded Sherlock like a child over the mess he’d made.

“What will John think?” She hissed, scurrying into the kitchen and trying to tidy what she could while John stood awkwardly and shuffled with his cane.

Unrepentant, Sherlock stood in the middle of the chaos and stared at John, as if waiting for him to react.

And John wanted to react.

The Captain in him wanted to order the flat whipped into shape, the trash taken out and everything organized and put in its correct place. Precision and neatness had been drilled into him and his skin itched at the haphazardness of the flat.

The Dom in him, however, wanted to berate Sherlock for not readying the flat for him, to order Sherlock to his knees and have him crawl across the floor and pick everthing up. He wouldn’t let Sherlock rise, either, until the entire flat was spotless and then, John thought savagely, he’d give Sherlock a sound spanking for wasting his time and when Sherlock’s arse was red and smarting, John would put him back on his knees and use that mouth-

“John?” Sherlock took a step closer, his eyes raking over John’s body excitedly and John took a small step backward, shaking his head, realizing he’d been gripping his cane entirely too hard.

“It’s uh….messy.” John said lamely, shrugging it all away, and Sherlock’s shoulders drooped, leaving John feeling as if he’d failed some unknown test.


	4. Chapter 4

Meeting Sherlock Homes was the craziest thing that had ever happened to John.

The next few hours were an adrenaline fueled blur. First a case and being deduced to within an inch of his life in the cab ride over to the crime scene, and then being left at said crime scene and meeting a shadowy figure in a warehouse who turned out to be Sherlock’s brother and not some crazed lunatic with a penchant for brollies. Then John was bringing his gun to 221B because he and Sherlock were investigating a serial killer and he texted a bloody murderer with his own mobile what even was John’s life now? Was this really happening or was all this some fever dream and he’d wake up back at his bedsit, alone and suicidal again?

He should have been running scared. Sherlock Holmes was dangerous. Insane.

Brilliant.

John had never felt so alive- or so happy. That evening saw John limping to Angelo’s and sitting with his back to the window so Sherlock could watch for the serial killer to arrive, being mistaken for Sherlock’s date by the owner of the restaurant- who owed Sherlock a favor- which….that wasn’t the worst thing John had ever been assumed to be. He rather liked it, truth be told, but he’d vehemently denied it because, well, he wasn’t. He didn’t know how Sherlock had felt about that, being linked to John. He didn’t want to assume.

Fuck it all.

Then they were running across London, jumping from rooftop to rooftop and laughing like boys and “welcome to London!” and “Ready when you are.” And John had never felt more alive or more in love because one evening with Sherlock Holmes, in his element and solving crime, was enough for John. He was gone over Sherlock Holmes and it wasn’t until they got back to the flat that John realized something even more revolutionary.

“That…was the craziest thing…I’ve ever done.” John panted, leaning against the wall of the foyer and trying to get his breath back but he was laughing too much. This wasn’t what normal people did in their normal lives. They didn’t race across rooftops and try and solve crimes. They watched the evening telly over dinner and gasped when they learned the killer’s true identity while all the hard work had been done for them. They didn’t join in and risk their lives and enjoy it.

But John did. Because of Sherlock.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

“That wasn’t just me.” John managed between breaths, glancing at Sherlock, suddenly remembering Sherlock’s popularity in the barracks and wondering- somewhat jealously, if he were being honest- if Sherlock kept in touch with the boys, the men whose cocks he’d serviced and taken and begged for. Sherlock met his eyes and grinned, and John was suffused with lust. It was immediate. He’d never had such a visceral reaction and he would have reached over and dragged Sherlock to him, would have pushed him to his knees but-

“So what was that?” He asked, trying to change the subject, suddenly uncomfortable. He and Sherlock hadn’t discussed anything like that. It would be rude to just plow right into it like some bullheaded dom with an overinflated ego.

“Oh. Passing the time.” Sherlock shrugged, easy, letting John change the subject for which he was grateful. “And proving a point.”

“What point?”

“You. Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled in the direction of Mrs. Hudson’s downstairs door. “Doctor Watson will take the bedroom upstairs!”

“Says who?”

“The man at the door.”

John had opened his mouth to call bullshit- yes, he would probably take the upstairs room but how had Sherlock known that- when a knock sounded on the door. He gave Sherlock a look, but went and opened the door…then stared, nonplussed.

“Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this.”

There was John’s cane. Glinting in the streetlights, extended in Angelo’s hand like a bad dream come to life, and John couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even remember leaving it at Angelo’s but clearly he had and he’d been running without it this whole time…and…

He turned to Sherlock who gave him the softest smile and something passed between them, the same thing John had felt back in Afghanistan when Sherlock had first knelt for him, the same thing he’d felt when he’d seen Sherlock again at the club.

John thanked Angelo and then stood in the foyer, holding his cane in wonderment. “You did this.”

“Yes…sir.”

The air was precipitously thick between them with promise and lust and questions unasked and things left unsaid and John swallowed, opened his mouth- but before he could move, Mrs. Hudson ran out and tearfully asked- “Sherlock, what have you done?”- and they were off again.

* * *

 

John’s belly was full of Chinese and wine and his body was warm and languid. He’d killed someone tonight. That person hadn’t been a very nice person, though, and so it was all right. He and Sherlock had decided that together.

He and Sherlock.

John had a new place to live that wasn’t shit, his limp was cured, and he was in love with a crazy madman. Life hadn’t been so good for…fuck, months. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so content, and the reason for his happiness was standing a few feet away from him, beautiful in the dim light of their new, gorgeous, homey, messy-as-all-fuck flat.

Sherlock Holmes. The genius. Apparent former junkie. Crime solver. Consulting detective. Madman. Sweetheart of a regiment in Afghanistan. Submissive. In need of a dom.

“You were amazing tonight.” John said, unselfconscious. Sherlock dipped his head, biting his lip, and when he raised his eyes John knew what he would say before he said it.

“You weren’t so bad yourself…sir.”

“Mm.” John’s body reacted to the title, and the way Sherlock said it. Half-afraid, half-hopeful, his deep voice pitched so low it made John’s chest hurt and he didn’t even know voices could do that. John was still soaring high on the adrenaline of the night, the wine he’d had with dinner, and he thought Sherlock was too. They were both feeling reckless.

There were so many ways tonight could go. John could decline Sherlock’s obvious offer, go up to his room, and pretend it hadn’t happened. They could take things slowly and have a discussion about what each wanted from the other. Or John could take those few steps across the room, tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s ridiculous hair, and kiss him until Sherlock’s breath went unsteady.

Sherlock licked his lips slowly, dropping his eyes coquettishly when John reacted, and even though John knew it was a blatant attempt to manipulate him, his mind was made up.

Sherlock was incredibly responsive when John kissed him, small little sighs breathing into John’s mouth every time their tongues tangled together, and relaxing into John’s touch, allowing John to move his head in time with their kisses and giving up everything to him.

Sherlock was a gorgeous submissive. John had known he was from word-of-mouth, and then demonstration, in Afghanistan but it had been too long since he’d had him and John had almost forgotten the easy way Sherlock took directions. He acquiesced entirely and was reactive to the barest of nudges. Quivering for direction and control, he didn’t reach or take but waited, somewhat impatiently but waited nonetheless, and John was addicted.

It almost didn’t seem possible: this Sherlock who moaned when John pressed his cock against him and only pushed back when John murmured for him to…and the consulting detective from earlier, rude and arrogant and in control of himself and everyone around him.

Of course it made sense, John considered as he reached around and grabbed Sherlock’s arse, grinding the other man into him, Sherlock’s cock gratifyingly hard, and tugging on Sherlock’s bottom lip with his teeth. People’s everyday lives didn’t always match who they were in the bedroom. That was what made it so fun, the juxtaposition and the ruse, the ability to relax and let go in privacy.

Or not so private, John remembered wirily. He’d heard of Sherlock’s now-infamous scene in Afghanistan. Getting fucked on his knees by more than half a dozen men. Not really private, but the thought remained.

“I’ve been thinking about you for bloody months.” John wanted to ball his hands into fists in Sherlock’s hair and _pull_ , drag Sherlock’s head back and bite at his long neck. Mark him. This was their first night together- technically their second, fine fine- but he didn’t know really what Sherlock liked and until then…

“I’ve been…touching myself for…months remembering you.” Sherlock replied and John was so startled by the admission he laughed.

“Should have remembered how forward you are…especially since you took every cock in the regiment in one evening.”

“Not every one, sir…” Sherlock said modestly. “I took _yours_ the next evening.”

John laughed again, free and almost high on the happy feeling in his chest. He hadn’t laughed this much in so many months. It felt amazing. And terrifying, because he didn’t know when this would end, but it would hurt when it did. Of that he was sure.

But he was here, now, with Sherlock and John had been so desolate for so long he refused to worry about the future.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know.” He said, and Sherlock frowned, not following his logic. “Touch yourself. Subs who touch themselves without permission need to be punished.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, as if someone had hit him, and a long shudder reverberated through his body beneath John’s hands. John knew he had him.

“Kneel.”

Sherlock went down immediately, his knees hitting the floor unresistingly, and John knew they should probably talk about it. Stop and sit down and discuss what this meant and how this would work between them. But at the moment, all he could think of was that it’d been more than a year that he’d had Sherlock on his knees, more than a year since he’d had the pleasure of that single-minded devotion, and he didn’t want to wait.

Neither did Sherlock, if his open-mouthed stare was anything to go by. Or the tented front of his trousers which John eyed with interest.

“You’ve wanted this?” John asked, one more time, just to be sure. It didn't seem possible.

“Constantly.” Sherlock breathed, swaying forward as if John were a magnet. “Please, sir.”

“Ok.” John nodded, his mind made up. “What’s your safeword?”

“Apiary, sir. But…” Sherlock stared up at John from his knees and the sight, finally real and not a figment of John’s dreams, was visceral. His cock reacted, throbbing into a hardness that almost hurt. “You saved my life tonight, John. At the college, with the cabbie... I trust you with my life…I’d trust you with anything you wanted to do…”

It was a foolish thing to say. No one should be that trusting, even under the best circumstances. It didn’t matter that John had killed someone tonight defending Sherlock. He could still be capable of anything and for Sherlock to say that-

John broke off that train of thought, upset and wondering why he was reacting like that. It wasn’t like him to be so…emotional. He didn’t like how Sherlock’s admission made his chest feeling, tight and aching, and so he pushed it aside and ignored it as best he could, giving Sherlock a forced smile.

“Apiary. I’ll remember that. And I expect you to, as well.”

* * *

 

They moved to Sherlock’s bedroom, more privacy and less chance of being caught by Mrs. Hudson who had been effusive in her praise of John. John ordered Sherlock to strip and he did so with quick, precise movements, his heart beating quickly in his chest.

John Watson was acting as his dom. He was submitting to Captain Watson tonight. Sherlock was giddy, like a kid at Christmas.

John was watching him and so Sherlock put a bit more of a flourish into his movements, arching his body in pleasing ways and turning to present his arse for John’s approval as he peeled his trousers down his legs. It wasn’t really necessary but he heard John grunt and grinned, happy he’d had an effect on him.

“Tart.” John chuckled and Sherlock preened beneath his gaze, turning just slightly so his hard cock was in better detail. He wanted to touch it, roll back the foreskin and give John a show of playing with himself, but John hadn’t told him to do that yet.

“You’re gorgeous and you know it. I think you’d look even more beautiful with a collar around that pretty neck.” John said, his hands lightly encircling the base of Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock shivered. He loved the idea of wearing a collar and being owned by John Watson. He’d never worn one before, had actively rebelled against other doms wanting him to wear a sign of their ownership, but he’d love John Watson’s collar. He wondered how long they would have to be together before John allowed him to wear it.

John’s hands dropped down, slipping over Sherlock’s shoulders and over his bare chest to land, unerringly, on Sherlock’s lower stomach, close enough to his cock to be a tease. Sherlock’s cock flexed hopefully upward but John ignored it and stepped back.

“Undress me.”

Sherlock’s hands were shaking from nerves. He had to force himself to concentrate as he pulled John’s jumper up and over his head, dropping it to the floor-

“Fold that.” John’s voice lashed out, displeased, and Sherlock cursed himself. He knew better. He bent to pick up the garment and folded it gently before laying it aside.

“Perfect.” John beamed and Sherlock felt the light, shivery feeling that submitting to someone always brought start in the pit of his stomach. He fumbled with the buttons on John’s shirt, carefully plucking at them one at a time to reveal…god above- another layer of clothes! Sherlock suppressed his irritation that once again, he was denied the sight of John’s chest, and folded John’s button down with curt, precise movements before turning and whisking the last offending garment off John’s head.

“Oi!” John’s protest was muffled and Sherlock hastily folded the vest and tossed it on top of the pile of clothes so he could stare at John.

John’s chest was still defined from the army, but was starting to go soft around the edges from lack of physical activity. In the best way possible, Sherlock amended in his head. He was still striking. John didn’t look fat. He looked powerful, competent. Strong. Sherlock’s mouth went dry, eyes zooming around the exposed flesh until his eyes landed on the scar, a starburst of angry red bisecting John’s shoulder. The sight took his breath away with the raw violence of it. Deep tissue wound. Severing muscle and bone and blood vessels. There would be an exit wound, probably just as bad. It shouldn’t have been so cruel but it had caused so much damage.

Sherlock read the pain and suffering and blood loss, the almost death, in the scar tissue and didn’t know what to say but John, unaccustomed to Sherlock’s silence, cleared his throat.

“Sorry. I know it’s…it’s really ugly. I’m sorry. I should have told you…You don’t have to-“ John tried to grab his vest and put it back on, but Sherlock plucked it from his hands and tossed it across the room.

“ _Sherlock_!”

Sherlock wasn’t worried about his impertinence. He’d safeword if he had to, but he couldn’t let John continue thinking Sherlock was disgusted by his scar. He grabbed John when he moved to retrieve his vest, and spun him around, impulsively kissing him when John opened his mouth to complain. He felt John stiffen, then relax somewhat into the kiss but Sherlock was talking before John could pull away.

“I’m not disgusted by your scar. How could you ever think that? It’s amazing. Brilliant. It’s a part of you that visibly shows how courageous and brave you were. You’re…a fighter.” Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and forged on. “Tonight…you didn’t even hesitate. You knew the danger and you came anyway to…to save me. And you did. You know you did. How could I ever be repelled by a demonstration of your bravery?”

John huffed out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, and shook his head, burying it in the bend of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock felt, rather than saw, John assimilate everything he’d said, then shake his head, but wasn’t entirely about to dismiss it. John’s hands slowly relaxed, fists unclenching, and he took a deep breath…then another….and another. Sherlock let him find his peace, but he wanted to touch the scar. He could imagine the very texture and roughness beneath his fingers, but he held himself back. He didn’t think now was the time.

Maybe one day. Later. In the future, there would be time.

John finally pulled away and gave Sherlock a smile. “All right. Let’s….enough of that. If you still want to-“

“Of course. Sir.”

“Ok.” John grinned. “Now. Finish what you started.”

It took Sherlock a second to remember what he had been doing- undressing John- then he jerked to attention. He worked at the button, then the fly of John’s jeans. He peeled them down, catching John’s boxers at the same time so he wouldn’t waste time and folded them all together and threw them in the direction of the rest of John’s clothes.

“ _Oh_.” Sherlock moaned at the sight of John’s cock. It was just as perfect and large as he’d remembered and now it was here, already hard, and ready for him to worship. John had softened during their emotional interlude, but he was quickly hardening and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees and try and fit as much of John’s cock down his throat as possible. John, however, had other plans.

“Good job.” He praised warmly and jerked his head towards the bed. “On your back. Hands above your head and don’t move them until I tell you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock eagerly laid himself out and clutched the headboard above him tightly. Anticipation was a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. He had no clue what John planned to do and every possibility seemed more outrageous than the last. He wriggled as John moved around the bed, his eyes raking over Sherlock approvingly. Sherlock’s cock was already hard against his stomach and he clutched at the headboard even tighter. This was only their second scene together and Sherlock didn’t want to fuck up and disappoint John. He wanted to show John what a great sub he was and hopefully- please god- John would agree to be his long-term dom.

John knelt up on the bed between Sherlock’s spread legs, running his hands up his calves and over Sherlock’s sensitive thighs, stopping short of his testicles and then, without another word, lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s cock.

It was so unexpected that Sherlock gasped at the first wet touch of John’s tongue. His spine bowed at the startling warm suck to the very tip which had pleasure singing through him. It had been a very, _very_ long time since he’d had his dick sucked and it was a wholly unfamiliar pleasure, such a rare event in his life that he could count the number of times on one hand. And still have fingers left to spare. Most doms were too selfish to even bother with such pleasures for their submissives, and others didn’t think a sub was worthy enough for such sensations.

Sherlock blinked at the ceiling, trying to rally his scattered thoughts. “John…J-John…Don’t you want me to…to…s-service you, sir?”

“I’ve been dreaming about this cock for months.” John said plainly. “And I plan to enjoy myself sucking it for as long as I want. Any objections?”

“Y-yes, sir. I-I mean no…no, sir. Please….” Sherlock swallowed heavily and he knew his cock was already leaking at the prospect of John sucking him off. He hadn’t even known how badly he wanted such a thing until it was presented to him.

He panted for breath, almost sick with anticipation…and then John’s mouth was back, taking his cock down almost to the base, tongue swirling around his frenulum as he pulled off and Sherlock cried out, undone. John was clearly an expert at this, Sherlock thought blearily, but he didn’t have time to envy the previous men John had sucked off to hone his skills because John was doing a fantastic job of scattering Sherlock’s wits and driving him to distraction. It had nothing to do with the fact that Sherlock had almost never had this done to him, but everything to do with John Watson, between his legs, evoking every reaction from him he could. Sherlock’s hips jumped but John held him down, sucking and working with his other hand in tandem and in next to no time Sherlock’s testicles were drawing up-

“I’m about to come.” Sherlock said quickly, his voice so breathy he was almost embarrassed by it. He expected John to tell pull away and him to wait, to deny him for a while and tease. Submissives weren’t supposed to come before their doms, of course. Sherlock knew that. Subs were supposed to earn their pleasure, not expect it. Sherlock was totally unprepared for John to say-

“Come.” John was hoarse, but his message was clear. “I want to see you come, Sherlock. Now.”

“Oh!” Sherlock couldn’t have held himself back after that. Not after a command from his dom. He was suddenly coming, his orgasm rushing through him in an all-consuming, relieving flash and John was there the whole time, milking Sherlock’s cock as pulse after pulse of come squirted from the tip.

Sherlock trembled as his orgasm faded, staring at John with new wonder. Different. New. Exciting. It was everything he’d been looking for in a dom and he didn’t know how the rest of their scene would go, how the rest of the night would play out, but he was still eager for more. More of Captain John Watson.

“That was goddamn gorgeous.” John slowed his hand over Sherlock’s cock, but he didn’t stop, even when Sherlock made a moue of protest and writhed beneath him. John chuckled. “Sensitive?” He asked, as if he didn’t know.

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock gasped, hands gripping the headboard so hard it hurt, just so he wouldn’t reach down and knock John’s hand away. His cock was so sensitive and the pleasure blurred into _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_ and he pressed his hips down into the mattress in a futile attempt to get away from John’s hand. John just laughed at him.

“I bet it is. Don’t you have anything to say to me after sucking your cock, Sherlock? Letting you come?”

“Oh! Thank you, sir.” Sherlock shuddered beneath the onslaught, thinking this would make the torment end. “Thank you!”

John beamed. “You’re welcome, Sherlock. And I expect you to thank me when I make you come again.”

_Oh god._

“I want to see you come again and again and again tonight…until you’re wrung dry. And I expect you to thank me after each time. Understand?”

“John...”

“Do you understand, Sherlock?” John asked, his voice brooking no arguments and Sherlock knew he was defeated. His body danced on the bed to the motions of John’s hand, his cock the instrument of his own torture and how often, he thought sardonically, had he wished for doms to be more creative, to let him come more often, and now here he was. Hoisted with his own petard.

“Yes…sir…I...understand.”

“Good.” John scooped up some of Sherlock’s come and used it as temporary lube to ease the motions of his hand. Sherlock moaned, hips jumping and trying to get away while simultaneously trying to push into the heat of John’s fist. His cock had started to harden again and even though his nerves still felt raw, he could feel himself slowly building to orgasm again.

“You have a magnificent face when you come…I’ve been dreaming about it for months. I want to see it a few more times tonight.”

It was gratifying to hear and later Sherlock would give such a confession the proper response and think of it from every angle- imagining John dreaming of him and wanting to see Sherlock come so badly- but at the moment, Sherlock wasn’t able to concentrate. He clenched his teeth against the cries he wanted to let loose and stammered.

“Y-yes, sir…Yes…I just…um…how many times, sir?”

“That’s not up to you, Sherlock.” John replied smoothly, and oh- that was fantastic. It wasn’t up to Sherlock. John was in control. Sherlock let himself bask in that knowledge before John’s voice pulled him back again. “But since this is our first scene- in a while-“ He said when he saw Sherlock’s mouth open to protest. “- and we haven’t gone over rules or limits or anything…I’ll tell you. I want to see you come…two more times. You can do that for me, can’t you? You can come two more times for me?”

Sherlock did some quick thinking. It was difficult. He’d never came that many times in one session before. Even with himself. He didn’t know if he could. He wondered what John would do if Sherlock said no. He knew John would stop, but John would be disappointed and Sherlock desperately didn’t want to disappoint John. This wasn’t hurting Sherlock, not really, but it was uncomfortable and made him want to cringe away. But that was what forced orgasms felt like. They weren’t a hard limit for Sherlock and in the future, if John were his dom, Sherlock wouldn’t object to multiple orgasms.

“Sherlock?” John prompted, his hand sliding over the head of Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock wailed, unable to speak for a few minutes. When he finally could, John’s torturous hand moving on to palm his testicles, Sherlock tried:

“Yes…please, sir. M-make me come again. However…m-many t-times you want…”

John grinned, delighted, and Sherlock whimpered.

* * *

 

The second orgasm was harder to reach, but still felt good. Sherlock winced and shuddered his way through it, watching his cock spurt out more come and this time John leaned down and tongued at it, licking it up as it dribbled down Sherlock’s cock.

“Sherlock?” John prompted and this time Sherlock knew what he was to say.

“Thank you, sir, for letting me come. Again.”

“My pleasure.” John grinned. “And my turn, I think.” He was hard, his cock red and neglected. Sherlock didn’t think John had ever touched himself while he’d been pleasuring Sherlock and Sherlock watched a bead of precome drip down from the tip.

He wanted John’s cock in his mouth but he was disappointed when John directed him to roll onto his hands and knees, presenting his arse to John. John’s hands were warm and firm on Sherlock’s hips, kneading Sherlock’s arse, digging his fingers into the muscles. Sherlock moaned at the rough treatment. Beneath him, his cock didn’t so much as twitch. It was soft and small, sated, and after the unrelenting handling Sherlock was grateful for the momentary reprieve before he was forced to come again.

“This arse is murder.” John said, and Sherlock yelped when, without warning, John spread Sherlock’s cheeks, revealing his most sensitive area to his perusal. The disconcerting feeling of air on his exposed hole made Sherlock shiver and twitch, and he gasped, high in his throat, when John’s thumb smoothed over his hole.

“You want it here, don’t you? You want me to fuck you.”

He hadn’t thought John would fuck him tonight. He didn’t know why, but the thought hadn’t crossed Sherlock’s mind. Now, presented with the thing he wanted most, Sherlock couldn’t contain his excitement. It didn’t matter that he’d already been forced to come twice and it would be too sensitive for John to fuck him comfortably. He didn’t care. All he wanted was-

“Oh god, sir…yes, please, sir!”

But his eagerness was all for nothing. Sherlock listened sadly as John explained why they couldn’t yet, not tonight. “If you want to do this, we need to be proper about it. I know I’m…a bit bigger than other guys you may have had. There’d be a lot of preparation and tonight,” John laughed shakily, “I don’t know if I could last that long. I don’t want to hurt you because I was in a rush.”

“Please.” Sherlock whispered, unable to help himself, and John slapped his arse.

“None of that. I’ll fuck you when I want but that won’t be tonight.” John cleared his throat. “All right. Now. Where’s your lube?”

* * *

 

John’s finger in his arse was one of the best wonders of the world. Sherlock was sure of it. He would need to run a few experiments, perhaps create a chart to firmly illustrate the point, but he was confident his hypothesis would hold merit.

With a doctor’s precision, John had found Sherlock’s prostate and rubbed, first gently and softly, then, as he reached around for Sherlock’s cock, more ruthlessly, making Sherlock’s cock to harden again and, after many torturous minutes, forcing another orgasm from Sherlock’s exhausted body. It hadn't even felt good, more like a locking of his muscles as he dribbled out a few drops of come. John had tsked and said rather ominously: "You can do better than that, Sherlock. I'll have to train you up better in the future."

“Thank you…sir…for letting me come…again.” Sherlock slurred into the mattress, and he groaned in relief when John finally let go of his cock. It felt rubbed raw, engorged with blood and so sensitive Sherlock could feel every beat of his heart in it.

John wasn’t done yet. He teased at Sherlock’s red hole, pushing his slicked cock against the sensitive rim, then pulling away, rubbing the glans of his cock over and over it but not dipping inside. Sherlock held himself as still as he could, only his gasping moans any indication of how he felt. He imagined what it would feel like to be fucked open by John, split wide by his thick cock which would stretch him, make him burn, but fill him up. Feel oh, so good. He knew John had said he wouldn’t fuck him yet. It was disappointing, but he wanted anything John would give him.

He shivered, the muscles in his thighs shaking from fatigue, as John slicked lube between Sherlock’s thighs- and Sherlock was so gone he couldn’t even enjoy the caresses- and then told him to press his legs together. Sherlock did, still shaking, and John pushed between Sherlock’s slick thighs, the head of his cock nudging against Sherlock’s soft testicles.

Sherlock moaned. John thrust into the tight slickness and Sherlock vaguely wished it was his arse. It felt like John was fucking him, his body draped around Sherlock’s, his hands firm at Sherlock’s hips as he held him in place, thrusting behind him, his hipbones stroking Sherlock’s arse with every move. Sherlock’s arms trembled as he held himself up, clenching his thighs together for John’s pleasure, and he cried out when John reached around and fondled Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock was afraid John would make him come again, but John seemed content to grip and pull at Sherlock’s cock with seemingly absentminded enjoyment. It was too intense. Sherlock closed his eyes, body juddering beyond his control, and tried to stay still and give John a tight hole to fuck.

He heard the tell-tale hitch in John’s breathing and then, John’s body stilled and his come rushed between Sherlock’s thighs. It dripped down onto the bed, mingling with Sherlock’s own. Seeing John come felt as if Sherlock had won some prize, and he tried to puzzle that thought through, but he couldn’t.

When John released him, Sherlock collapsed onto the bed in the puddle, wrinkling his nose at the feel of cold come on his skin but unable to move. “

You were amazing.” John soothed, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder, then his neck, moving his lips over Sherlock’s sweaty cheek. “I’m so impressed. You were absolutely fucking amazing.”

The praise made everything worth it, and the loving way John cleaned him up, running a cool cloth over his skin and budging him up from the wet patch and onto clean sheets, was the perfect aftercare. Sherlock settled against John when he returned to the bed and even though John told him to try and rest, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Well?”

“Hm? Whazzat?”

“ _Well_?” Sherlock asked again, tiredly impatient. “What are we?”

“Flatmates.” John said, and Sherlock’s heart sank. “At the very least, of course. Friends. Boyfriends, because after all this there’s no way I’m letting you date other people, thanks.” John said, clipped and Sherlock laughed…then John was laughing and Sherlock didn’t know what it was so funny, but it was, and eventually they were clutching each other, tears running down John’s face as they howled with laughter.

When they finally settled, Sherlock stuck his cold feet against John’s legs and held on while John hissed and tried to get away. “And…more?”

“More what?”

“Are we…more than that?”

“Mm.” John hummed. “What do you want us to be?”

Sherlock knew John was being deliberately thick on purpose, and he thought he knew the reasons why. Now wasn’t the time to hash out all the mental, physical, and emotional reasons John didn’t think he could be a good dom (most of which were completely wrong, by the way). They could work all that out later. For now, they could commit to each other, and solve those problems together. “I want…I’d love for you to be my dom.”

John was quiet for a long time. Sherlock was impatient- he wanted an answer now!- but he tried to limit himself and let John work things out for himself. He tapped his toes against John’s leg and, after he’d counted to 200 in his head, tried again.

“Please, John?”

“Yes.”


End file.
